


The ABC Affair III (2019)

by JantoJones



Series: The ABCs [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-13 00:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 10,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18021662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: An alphabetical series of shorts based on the 'ABCs of New Orleans'.(Apologies to anyone whose comments have disappeared.  I somehow managed to forget to post a couple of chapters and, as they are in alphabetical order, I had to delete a couple then repost them.)





	1. A is for Alligator

Two U.N.C.L.E. agents, dressed entirely in black to conceal them in the darkness, carefully paddled their way through the New Orleans Bayou. Napoleon and Illya were in a black, two-man kayak, and were using muffled oars in effort to avoid detection by the man they were following. The blond, who was in the front seat, had even covered his hair in a black wool hat to prevent the light from the waxing moon from showing it up.

They could just about see the man they were following, as he too had taken pains to conceal himself against the night. He had, however, neglected to quieten his oars, so the men from U.N.C.L.E. found it relatively easy to stay on his tail by merely keeping their ears open. It was believed that the man was carrying important Thrush intelligence, and was on his way to hand it off to a courier.

Neither Napoleon nor Illya spoke as the slow-speed chase continued until something bumped into their hull. The kayak rocked slightly.

“Are alligators nocturnal?” Napoleon whispered, trying to see what was in the water with them.

“Yes,” Illya replied. “They prefer to hunt in the evening, but we should still be careful. They tend not to attack humans unless they’re provoked, so be careful with your oar.”

Despite what his partner had told him, Napoleon was still nervous, and he became exceptionally cautious with the way he moved the oar. They both fell into silence again, before realising that they had begun to gain on their quarry as he had stopped paddling. Following suit, they soon noticed the reason why the man had stopped. Another kayak was approaching the Thrush man. Without discussion, Napoleon and Illya carefully manoeuvred into the shelter of some overhanging trees. They would follow the second man as soon as it was possible.

As they watched, the first man pulled a small package from inside his sweater and held it out to the second man. Unfortunately, as the second man reached for it, his kayak was knocked by an alligator, and he dropped the package. It landed on the surface, where began to slowly sink. Reacting entirely on automatic, the courier plunged his hand into the water to try and stop it from sinking too far. 

The quiet, still of the darkness was suddenly filled with a bloodcurdling scream. 

“I guess one of the alligators was surprised by a sudden arm in its vision,” Napoleon stated quietly. “Do you think the package was rescued?”

“It does not seem so,” Illya answered, watching as the uninjured Thrush accused the other of incompetence. “And I have no desire to search for it.”

“Me neither,” Solo agreed. “Let’s head back and let Mr Waverly know the bad news.”

As they silently paddled away from the Thrush operatives, they could clearly hear as the pair argued about who was going to report what had happened. Illya couldn’t help but think that they would probably be better off letting the alligator finish the job.


	2. B is for Barkus

Napoleon and Illya stood on the sidewalk and watched as one of the strangest parades of Mardi Gras passed them. Solo was quite entertained by the sight of dozens of dogs from the Krewe of Barkus, all decked out in costumes, and was quite charmed by some of them. It was unbelievable just how diverse the different costumes were. Kuryakin, on the other hand, was not so keen on the parade, and had positioned himself slightly behind his partner. He had a long-held fear and distrust of dogs.

“When is the contact due?” he asked, trying to take his mind from memories of dogs he’d encountered in his youth.

Solo glanced at his watch.

“Any time,” he replied. “Apparently, we will be able to ascertain who they are fairly easily.”

“Was that all you were told?” Illya queried, incredulously. “No names or descriptions?”

“All I was told was that there would be two individuals, with one offering an unusual handshake as way of proving their credentials.”

Illya sighed heavily, ensuring that Napoleon could be in no doubt as to his level of frustration. There were times when ‘cloak and dagger’ entered into the realms of clairvoyance.

The dog parade was coming to the end when one animal, which Illya recognised to be a whippet, an English descendant of greyhounds, broke free from the group. It was carrying a small plastic tube in its mouth and was being closely followed by its owner. The two agents immediately knew them to be their contacts, as the dog was wearing a black turtleneck sweater, which matched the one Illya was wearing. It sat down in front of the Russian and lifted up its front right paw. He looked to Napoleon, who nodded encouragingly. 

With extreme hesitation, Illya took the paw and shook it. The dog then bowed its head, before placing the tube on the ground. Napoleon picked it up as both dog and human blended back in with the parade. 

“Well, that was different,” the American muttered.

Illya slowly nodded in response; still holding his hand out.

“Are you okay, Tovarisch?”

“I am fine,” Illya replied. “I was merely admiring the dog’s sartorial taste.”


	3. C is for Crawfish

Illya Kuryakin had, yet again, found himself confined to desk work; this time thanks to a sprained knee. His situation was made all the more annoying by the daily calls he was getting from his partner. Napoleon was on assignment in New Orleans, and was taking great delight in regaling Illya with stories of all the restaurants he’d visited.

As he worked through the pile of paperwork on his desk, Illya’s stomach rumbled at the thought of all the wonderful food Solo had been eating. He glanced at his watch and realised he was in danger of working through lunch. His stomach signalled its emptiness again, just as the office door opened, allowing Rhonda Mackie from the archives to enter. 

“I’ve brought the file you requested,” she said, “Though, judging by that sound, you should perhaps leave it until after lunch.”

Illya smiled and took the file from her.

“I am more than ready to eat,” he replied. “And Napoleon’s calls from New Orleans are really not helping.”

“Can I bring you something from the commissary?” Rhonda offered. “It will be fairly busy right now, and with your knee it’ll be awkward.”

Illya had been managing perfectly well, having had plenty of practice on crutches in the past, but he couldn’t deny it would be easier if Rhonda fetched him something. If nothing else, it would save him having to face the attentions of all the sympathetic women he would encounter.

“That is very kind of you,” he accepted. “I do not suppose they will have anything to match what Napoleon has been enjoying.”

“Probably not,” she answered. “Although . . .”

“Although what?”

“Can you spare an hour, and would you like to join me for lunch?”

..........................................................

A short while later, Rhonda brought her car to a stop, outside a restaurant only a couple of blocks from headquarters. In the passenger seat Illya smiled as he read the name ‘Cajun Kitchen’.

“They do the best crawfish here,” Rhonda enthused. “My favourite is the Cajun crawfish étouffée. What do you think? Want to try it?”

“Indeed I do,” Illya replied, his mouth watering in anticipation. “But not right now.”

Rhonda’s face dropped.

“Do not take that the wrong way,” Illya said, hurriedly. “What I meant was, why not have something from that deli down the street for lunch, and we can come back here tonight instead? I am unable to take you dancing afterwards, but maybe a movie, or a jazz club might be acceptable.”

Rhonda’s smile could have outshone the sun.

“It’s a date.”


	4. D is for Du Monde

“What are we doing here?” complained Napoleon. “This surveillance job could easily be done by junior agents.”

He and Illya were sitting at the world-famous Café Du Monde coffee stand, in the French Quarter of New Orleans. The location was particularly pleasing to Illya Kuryakin, who was content to try everything on offer. He had already demolished more than his fair share of beignets.

“Are you saying that the CEA is not prepared to perform the same duties he expects of those subordinate to him?”

The questioned drew a puzzled glance from Napoleon. Illya was from a background where rank and duty were divided by clearly defined lines. He would never be expect to do the tasks assigned to more junior officers; not that the Russian had ever been an ardent stickler for the rules.

“No,” Solo replied. “I’m just saying that there are probably other things we could be doing?”

“Chasing women is, not yet, the duty of an U.N.C.L.E. agent.” Kuryakin muttered, stuffing the last of his beignet into his mouth.

“That depends on the assignment,” Napoleon countered, slightly annoyed by Illya’s constant referral to his favourite leisure pursuit. “We sometimes have to seduce a woman to get the information we want.”

“That would make it a strategy, not a duty,” Illya replied, his voice muffled by the food he was still chewing.

Napoleon decided to cut the discussion off before it led to a full blown argument; again. It was a row they had gone through many times, and neither of them was prepared to budge from his position on the subject. The argument never amounted to anything, and it never led to a falling out, but it often soured things for an hour or so.

“I’m getting another coffee. Can I get you anything, Tovarisch?”

Illya drained his coffee cup.

“Another black coffee, and some more of these beignet things, please.”

Napoleon smiled. At least Illya was enjoying the assignment, even if he wasn’t.


	5. E is for Endymion

Having to wait for Napoleon Solo was an occupational hazard for Illya Kuryakin. Admittedly, he wasn’t late when it mattered but, the rest of the time, he was usually tardy. At least this time, Illya had something to occupy his mind while he waited. He was leaning against a street lamp watching the Krewe of Endymion pass by in one of the New Orleans Mardi Gras parades. It wasn’t so much the parade itself which had distracted his thoughts, though it did prove entertaining, but the name of the Krewe.

Way back in another life, when he had been a student at Cambridge University in London, Illya had spent quite a lot of time with a girl called Clarissa Southon. She was a student of the classics and had a passion for Greek mythology. She also had a passion for Illya, and they often woke up together of a morning.

There had been one particular day when Illya had opened his eyes to find Clarissa watching him. She had been smiling lovingly, and when he had asked why she was watching him sleep, she had told him that he had put her in mind of Endymion.

“What do you mean?” he’d queried.

“In one version of the legend, the Titan sun goddess, Selene, was enamoured by how Endymion looked when he slept,” Clarissa had told him. “She entreated his father, Zeus, to keep him in a permanent state of slumber.”

“And you like the way I look when asleep?”

“Oh yes,” she answered lustily. “It makes you look so peaceful, and somehow younger. That resonates with the other version of the legend.”

“Do tell,” he’d said, as he ran his fingers over her body.

“Selene believed Endymion to be so beautiful, that she asked Zeus to grant him eternal youth.”

No more words had been said on the subject, and they had both been late for lectures that morning.

As he thought about what he’d learned about Endymion, Illya couldn’t help but smile. He was thirty-four years old, yet it was often remarked that he looked many years younger; especially when he was asleep. He briefly wondered if Clarissa had made an entreaty to Zeus herself.

“You seem happy,” stated Napoleon, dragging Illya back to reality.

“Just enjoying the parade,” Illya replied.

The expression Solo had seen on his partner’s face had not been one of enjoyment, but of reminiscence. He could easily ask what Illya had been thinking about, but decided against it. Whatever he had been remembering had clearly been a happy time, and Illya should be allowed to keep those memories to himself.


	6. F is for Float

Napoleon ran, but it wasn’t easy negotiating through the Mardi Gras crowds. His only consolation was that his pursuer was having just as much difficulty has he was. He didn’t dare look back to see how close the Thrush was to him as he needed to concentrate on what might get in his way. The microdot he was carrying held key information about several satrapies situated in Louisiana, and he had to get it to the local U.N.C.L.E. office with as little delay as possible.

It was at times like this he wished for the back-up of his partner but, unfortunately, Illya was on a separate assignment somewhere in Europe. Napoleon had no option but to rely on his own wits and cunning; two things he possessed in abundance. As he ran, his mind also ran. His senses were alert for anything which may help him in his flight.

Suddenly, he realised what was needed, as the floats of the parade came to a temporary halt. Napoleon had no idea why they had paused, assuming that something was clocking his passage, but he knew they provided the answer to his problem. 

Waiting until he was sure he would be unseen by the man chasing him, Napoleon drop to the ground and rolled under the nearest float. Once there, grabbed onto everything he could. After what felt like to long a time, the parade continued on its way. Solo had no idea how long he would hold on for, but vowed try for as long as possible.

A little less than thirty minutes later, Napoleon knew he wouldn’t last much longer. This presented him with another problem. He couldn’t expect the parade to stop again, just for his convenience, so he would have to time his exit perfectly. He had no wish to be run over by a parade float. For one thing, Illya would never let him hear the last of it.

Taking a deep breath, Napoleon took a deep breath, and counted to three. He then dropped to the road and rolled. Several people were forced to take a step backwards as he jumped to feet. Napoleon took no notice of the onlookers as he hurriedly looked around for the Thrush who had been on his tail. Seeing no sign of him, and not wishing to risk being seen himself, Napoleon disappeared into the crowds. 

Some distance back down the street, the Thrush man had stopped running. As soon as he had lost sight of Solo, he had known the chase was over. What was more concerning to him, however, was that having lost the stolen microdot, his life was also over.


	7. G is for Gumbo

The restaurant was already heaving with people, but Illya didn’t care. He wanted to get his hands on some gumbo, and he was taking the opportunity while Napoleon completed their assignment. Pushing his way through the throng, he finally reached the large cooking pot which held his prize. Three old women were attending to the pot, and Illya couldn’t help but to think of the three witches from Macbeth. 

He was about to request a bowl of gumbo, when one was handed to him. As it was the only thing they sold it seemed obvious that you wouldn’t need to order. Before he could move away with his food, one of the women grabbed his sleeve.

“Wait a moment, Illyusha.”

“Do I know you?” he asked.

It was concerning enough that she knew his name, but her use of the diminutive form truly worried him.

“Fear not, my young friend,” she replied. “I am Mrs Goggol, and I foresaw your arrival in the stew.”

“Look,” Illya said, pulling away from the woman. “I do not know who you. . .”

“The dark haired one seeks to shine a light on the dark,” Mrs Goggol continued, ignoring Illya’s interruption. “He hunts in the wrong corner.”

“What do you mean?”

“You must tell him to search where the knowledge is held.”

With that, she turned away, leaving Illya open-mouthed. Finally dragging himself back to his senses, the Russian abandoned the gumbo and fought his way back out into the street. Once there he took out his communicator, and contacted Napoleon. He related to his partner everything which had just happened and, to his eternal relief, Napoleon didn’t mock him. Even more than that, he confirmed that he hadn’t been able to find the file where it had been expected to be.

“Is there a library, or a study?” Illya asked. “Somewhere where ‘knowledge in held’?”

“There’s a library, I think,” Solo replied. “I’ll take a look, but I wouldn’t put too much store by your witchy friend. I’ll let you know if I’m successful back at out hotel.”

An hour later, Illya was pacing the hotel room when Napoleon entered. He was brandishing a file.

“Where did you find it?”

“Believe it or not, it was in the library, secreted within a large book about the Voodoo Queens of New Orleans.”

There was a silence, which lasted for several seconds, before Illya replied.

“How are we going to put this in the report?”

“We’re not,” Solo told him firmly. “As far as anyone is concerned, I found this where we expected it to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Goggol is a very shameless rip-off of Mrs Gogol, a character from the Discworld novel 'Witches Abroad' by Sir Terry Pratchett. As today (12 the march 2019) is the 4th anniversary of Terry's death, I thought it an appropriate thing to do.


	8. H is for House

Hattie Adler leant against the doorframe of the bordello she owned. Though not strictly legal, Miss Adler’s ‘House of Ill Repute’ was rarely bothered by the authorities, given that many of them were frequent visitors. Lazily fanning herself, she smiled as she noticed a worried looking young man across the street. He was clearly plucking up the courage to come across, if the way he was clutching his hat was anything to go by.

The blond, though fairly young looking, was definitely at an age where he should have had experience of a woman. It seemed to Hattie, however, that it was a situation he was hoping to remedy at her establishment. Catching his eye, she waggled her finger and beckoned him over.

“There’s no need to fret, darlin’,” she purred. “We don’t bite; unless you want us to.”

The blond could barely look up as he mumbled a question.

“You’ll have to speak up, darlin’.

“Is this the Rising Sun?” he asked.

“Now then, that all depends on who is doin’ the askin’,” Hattie replied.

“M..my name is Illya.”

“Well now, Illya,” Hattie said, as she placed a finger under his chin, and raised his head. “Are you able to pay for your education?”

Illya nodded, and began to reach for his wallet. Miss Adler laid her hand across his, and told him not to go waving money around on the street.

“Come on in,” she told him. “I’m sure I can find a young lady who can teach you the ways of the world.”

“M..my buddy told me to ask for Tilly,” Illya stated. “He said she would be gentle.”

Hattie raised an amused eyebrow. Whoever this kid was, his ‘buddy’ was apparently a man with a sense of humour. Tilly was one of her most experienced girls, and didn’t take any prisoners when it came to virgins. The woman had ruined many a poor boy, and given them an insight into a world they would never want to leave.

“You’re the customer,” she said, with a chuckle. “I’ll take you to her.”

Tilly’s room was on the second floor of the house, and decorated in shades in red and pink. The Rising Sun was almost a respectable establishment, and was therefore clean and presentable. It could easily be taken for an everyday guesthouse. Miss Adler knocked on the door and guided Illya in.

“You have been recommended to this young man by a friend of his,” she explained. “Do be gentle with him.”

Once she had left, Illya dropped the nervous act instantly.

“I understand a man can learn many lessons here,” he said.

“There’s only one lesson a man needs to learn, and that is to listen to what he is told.”

Tilly then reached into a draw and took out a miniature spool of audio tape, which was inside a clear, plastic protective case. She didn’t hand it over straight away, as she needed to hear one further code phrase.

“Consider the lesson learned,” Illya stated, and accepted the tape.

“If you leave now, it will look suspicious,” Tilly told. “What do you want to do?”

“Well, I generally do not pay women for sex but, as I will be leaving money for the sake of appearances, and we have some time to kill . . .”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence, and a little while later, Miss Adler noticed that the nervous young man was infinitely more confident when he left.


	9. I is for Indians

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin had been given a couple of days to themselves before their return to HQ, so had decided to enjoy as much of Mardi Gras as they could. As it was the so called ‘Super Sunday’ they had chosen to go and see the amazingly spectacular costumes of the many Mardi Gras Indian tribes. Illya had been somewhat surprised to learn that the Indians were actually black Americans, and not Native American.

The two agents had found themselves a sweet spot where they would be able to take in the splendour of the parade, though they still had twenty minutes to wait.

“Do you have anything like this back home?” Napoleon asked his partner, who was munching on a beignet he had picked up on their way to the parade route.

“Not like this,” the Russian replied, after swallowing. “We have parades of course, which are just as big a celebration as this, but they are much less of a carnival. In fact, they are usually militaristic.”

“I imagine that this sort of thing would be seen as frivolous.”

“Absolutely,” Illya agreed. “Although, most towns and village have their own celebrations for various public events, and they tend to be more like this. Not that such intricate costume would be worn, other than traditional dress. I am very much looking forward to the show these Mardi Gras Indians will give us.”

As soon as he finished speaking, Napoleon’s communicator started beeping. As the American moved to somewhere less crowded to answer it, Illya sighed. He got the sudden feeling he wasn’t going to see the parade after all.

“We’re wanted back at HQ as soon as possible,” Solo told him when he returned. “Something big has apparently cropped up, and Waverly wants his best team on it.”

“I suppose we should be flattered,” Illya muttered. “How soon is as soon as possible? Have we got time to see some of the parade?”

“Afraid not, Tovarisch,” Napoleon replied, “Or plane leaves in an hour.” 

Illya shrugged in acceptance; vowing to himself that, next year, he would take his annual leave to coincide with Super Sunday.


	10. J is for Jazz Shirt

It had been a while since Illya Kuryakin’s every move was watched as he’d walked through the corridors of U.N.C.L.E. New York. He had gotten used to it at the time but now, as he made his way out of the building, Illya felt distinctly uncomfortable. Every eye was on him as he passed through, and every mouth was left hanging open when they saw him. However, no-one said anything until Napoleon set eyes on him.

“Are you going to a costume party?” he asked.

Illya looked down at the brightly patterned shirt he was wearing. A voice at the back of his mind told him he could have waited until he’d been clear of the building before changing into it; but that thought had come far too late.

“I am attending Jeff’s bachelor party,” he replied, fixing Solo with a glare which dared him to mock.

“Jeff?”

“He is a lab technician in R&D,” Illya explained. “His wish was to visit the Jazz Fest at the New Orleans Mardi Gras. Unfortunately, the department would have had to close down if everyone went to Louisiana, and that was entirely unfeasible.”

“That doesn’t explain that garment,” Napoleon said, pointing at the shirt. “It isn’t exactly your usual style.”

“I have arranged for one of the jazz clubs I frequent to host the party, and requested a New Orleans style Jazz Fest evening,” Illya told him.” Jeff insisted that we do it, as he says, properly.”

“You’re a good man, Illya Kuryakin,” Napoleon commented, with genuine admiration.

“Please do not say that to loudly, my friend,” the Russian said, with absolute seriousness. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

Napoleon laughed, causing Illya to grin.

“I’m afraid that shirt has already ruined that Ice Prince reputation of yours, Tovarisch,” Solo stated.

“I will just have to do some extra snarling for a while,” chuckled Kuryakin. “Enjoy your evening, Napoleon.”

As Illya headed out, Napoleon smiled with something akin to, but not exactly like, paternal pride. It didn’t seem so long ago that his partner was hated and distrusted by many at HQ. These days he had a close network of colleagues, a lot of whom he counted as friends.


	11. K is for King Cake

“All set,” said Illya Kuryakin, as he got into the passenger sear of the car in which Napoleon Solo was waiting.

He was slightly out of breath, having sprinted up the short, but steep hill, from the Purple Valley Event Catering Company, to where the vehicle was parked.

“A smoke bomb will go off in . . .,” he checked his watch. “. . . twenty-seven seconds, and trigger the fire alarm. Anyone inside will have two minutes to get out before things collapse. Why do Thrush cling to the name ‘Purple Valley’?”

“No idea, Tovarisch. Did you get the formula?”

Illya held up the file he’d purloined. U.N.C.L.E. had learned that the catering company had a side-line in truth drug manufacture, so Napoleon and Illya had been sent to recover the formula, and destroy the means of production. It had been decided early on that only one of them would go in and, given his skills, and love, of explosives, that task went to Illya.

The pair heard the sound of the fire alarms, and soon saw a couple of people leaving the building. The agents had chosen the small hours of the morning, on the assumption there would be very few people around.

“What is a King Cake?” Illya queried.

“What makes you ask that?” said Napoleon, with a puzzled glance.

“They seem to be making them in the legitimate side of the business,” the Russian explained. “I saw several boxes of them.”

“It’s a sort of coffee cake, crossed with cinnamon rolls,” Solo told him. The whole thing is covered with icing in the colours of Mari Gras; purple green, and yellow. Inside, there is usually a small plastic baby?”

“Why?!”

“It has something to do with the baby Jesus, I think. Whoever gets it is supposed to supply the next cake, or throw a party.”

Before Illya could ask any more questions, a rumbling from the Purple Valley building drew their attention. As they watched, one corner of the building folded in on itself.”

“You didn’t do the whole thing,” Solo stated.

“I destroyed what needed to be,” Illya replied. “The legitimate business seems to be quite a large operation, and I was attempting to preserve innocent people’s livelihoods.”

“Fair enough,” Napoleon said, and left it at that. “I think our work is done.”

“On our way back, I believe we should stop off at a bakery,” Illya said, as Napoleon started the car and set off. “I would like to sample one of these King Cakes.”


	12. L is for Ladders

Illya Kuryakin did not enjoy the feeling of vulnerability and, sitting in a seat atop one of the brightly coloured ladders which lined the Mardi Gras parade route, made him feel especially open. He was dressed in black jeans, black turtleneck, and black jacket, and he was also adorned in many beads. On his head, Illya had placed a black beret, and looked pretty much like a beatnik who had taken the wrong turn on his way to a Jazz club. This made him stand out from the crowd, which added to his feelings of susceptibility. 

Of course, the whole idea was for him to be easily spotted; especially by Thrush.

Illya’s reason for being there was to watch a hand-off between two couriers and provide a decoy for one of them. The first courier was a heavily disguised Napoleon, and the package he was carrying had been substituted. Illya had a small pang of sympathy for the genuine couriers. When the package arrived at its destination, heads were going to roll; possibly literally. The pang didn’t last, however. The agent was all too aware of the destruction, and loss of life, which would have resulted.

The substituted contents were similar to what was in the original, but would be utterly harmless. The scientist who had created it was already in the hands of U.N.C.L.E. and the command was quite certain that all plans had been destroyed.

Watching carefully, while making it look as though he was watching out for the parade, Illya allowed himself a small smile as the trade-off went without a hitch. Napoleon was easily swallowed by the crowd, while Illya decided to wait until the parade had passed. By that point his partner would be well away. Unfortunately, Thrush had other ideas. A tall, dark-haired man climbed onto the ladder, and allowed Illya to see the knife he was concealing.

“You’re too late to intercept the package, Kuryakin,” he said, with a grin which gave Illya a good look at his broken and blackened teeth.

“I guess I will just go home then.”

“I don’t think so,” the thrush said, his smile widening. “A friend of mine is waiting nearby and, together, we will deliver you to our boss.”

Illya shrugged in surrender. He waited until the Thrush climbed down before beginning his own descent. As he reached the bottom rung, Illya’s foot ‘slipped’, hand he made sure to fall onto his captor. It was a calculated risk and, luckily, he managed to avoid the knife. The people around them immediately began to help the pair up and, while the Thrush man was brought to his feet, Illya disappeared into the throng. Along the way, he discarded the beret and the beads, and was able to meet up with Napoleon only fifteen minutes later.

Another major Thrush attack had been foiled, and Illya had once again evaded capture which, for the two agents from U.N.C.L.E., counted as an exceptionally successful day.


	13. M is for Magnolia

Having a little time to kill before their assignment was due to start, Mark Slate and April Dancer decided to take a stroll around the streets of New Orleans. Although it was still only mid-March, the flowers of the Southern Magnolia trees were already beginning to bloom. The colour of the flowers brought a wistful smile to the face of the Brit.

“Penny for your thoughts, Darling?” April asked, softly.

“I was just thinking about my Mum,” Mark told her. “The trees reminded me of something, that’s all.”

“Care to share?”

“Sure, let’s grab a coffee.”

By pure chance, the pair had found themselves near to the world-famous Du Monde coffee stand, so had quickly procured themselves a café au lait apiece, and a table. On a tip she’d received from Illya, April also bought them a beignet each.

“So why did the trees remind you of your mother?” April prompted, as she took a sip of coffee.

“We were bombed out during the war,” Mark began, “And, like thousands of others, we ended up in a prefabricated house. There was obviously a massive housing shortage and they were cheap and quick to put up. Mum hated it and always referred to it ‘The Glorified Shed’. She lived in it up until five years ago, when she was able to finally have a brick-built house.”

“I’m guessing you helped a little with that.”

Mark nodded. His father had been killed in action, and from that moment, Mark had decided that it was his job to take care of his Mum. As a child, there had been little he could do, but things were different now. He was earning a decent wage with U.N.C.L.E. so was able to save enough to put down a deposit on a mortgage.

“As soon as Mum moved in she went on a mad decorating spree,” he continued, with a wide smile. “She wanted the very best, and insisted that the walls were to look clean and uncluttered. That way, she could use the soft furnishings to show off her colour choices. Every single wall in every single room was painted the same colour. It was a sort of off-white, which I was later told was called magnolia.”

“The colours of the flowers on the trees,” said April.

It didn’t surprise her at all that Mark had bought his Mum a house. He was that sort of man.


	14. N is for Natchez

**New Orleans 2015**

There was a slight breeze blowing as Aurora Solo pushed her grandfather’s wheelchair alongside the Mississippi. Stopping temporarily, she made sure the blanket covering his legs was well tucked in.

“You don’t need to fuss, sweetheart,” Napoleon Solo told her. “My legs may not work as well as they once did, but I can still operate a blanket on my own.”

She smiled at him and continued to push him along the pathway. Aurora had no idea why her grandpa had wanted to come to New Orleans but, because she could never say no to him, she had agreed to bring him. After another ten minutes, they arrived at a harbour in which a steamship called ‘The Natchez’ was moored. It was a replica of several other boats, which had carried the name, and which all were modelled after the original from the ‘good old days’.

“Take me aboard,” he instructed.

“You want to go on the ship?”

“Absolutely!” Napoleon affirmed. “I promised to meet an old friend.”

So that was it, thought Aurora. He could have just told her that in the beginning, but she suspected that old habits died hard. She was fully aware of who, and what, Napoleon Solo had been in his younger days, and being secretive had become second nature to him. She also guessed at who the old friend was who would be waiting for them and, sure enough, she soon caught sight of Illya Kuryakin. He was sitting in one of the bars, with his grandson; also called Illya.

“I swear you somehow cloned yourself down in those labs,” Napoleon joked, as he and his old partner hugged.

“Well, we had the resources,” Kuryakin replied. “Why have you dragged me all the way to New Orleans at my time of life?”

“What are you complaining about?” Solo asked, with mock outrage. “You’re younger than me.”

While the older pair launched into a playful bicker, the younger Solo and Kuryakin made a discreet withdrawal, under the premise of going for drinks.

“So why are we here?” Illya senior asked, once they had finished insulting one another.

When Napoleon had invited him to join him on the steamship, it hadn’t crossed Illya’s mind to query why. He knew there would be a good reason and, as they were both well into their twilight years, who knew how many more chances they would get to meet up.

“One last adventure,” Napoleon answered. “Drinking, gambling, and showgirls.”

“That is your kind of adventure,” Illya stated with a laugh, “But, as I no longer possess the abilities of my youth, I will happily share it. But, if you cause any trouble, you’re on your own. My last second escape days are well and truly behind.”

Napoleon chuckled at the mental image of an eighty-one year old Illya attempting to nimbly clamber up anything more difficult than a staircase.

“Worry not, Tovarisch,” he said. “Not on that score anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look over there,” Solo indicated to their grandchildren.

The body language which was being exhibited by Illya Junior and Aurora could be read by anyone.

“That is all I need,” the older Kuryakin moaned. “A Solo in my family.”


	15. O is for Oak

Despite being in the middle of bustling New Orleans, the City Park was a relatively quiet place. The area, in which there grew several ancient oak trees, some many centuries in age, could even be considered secluded. This had been a useful fact a few decades earlier when it was a favoured spot for settling feuds by duel. An imitation of such an event was currently in play, though it was only just midnight, and not the traditional time of dawn.

Napoleon Solo stood with his gun raised, several paces from Pierre Renaud, whose stance mirrored his own. It was a classic stand-off, which could only end with the death of one of them. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that the only light they had was from the moon, which was being filtered by the trees around them.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Napoleon could almost hear the voice of his partner saying ‘I told you so’. Illya was convinced that Solo’s demise would come because of a woman, and it seemed that this was to be the case. In his defence, Napoleon hadn’t known that Odile Renaud was married, but this hadn’t prevented her husband from wanting vengeance. 

Upon finding his wife in the arms of another man, Renaud and immediately challenged him to a duel. Napoleon, although a man of honour, knew that it was a pointless exercise and had taken to his heels; with the wronged husband close behind. Napoleon had aimed for the park, in the hope of hiding amongst the trees, calling Illya on the communicator as he went. Unfortunately, he somehow got himself turned around and was surprised when Renaud had step out in front of him. Both men had drawn their weapons.

That had been a good five minutes ago, though it seemed like hours to the two men. Neither of them spoke; both concentrating on watching out for any sign of a trigger about to be pulled. Although Napoleon was quite prepared to defend himself, he really didn’t want to fire first. His gun was loaded with bullets, and although the man who wanted to kill him had a legitimate reason for wanting to, he was an innocent.

From out of the darkness he heard the tell-tale, and very welcome ‘pfft’ of a sleep dart being fired. Half a second later, Pierre Renaud was out for the count. Illya Kuryakin stepped out from the trees and relieved the unconscious man of his gun. Even in the diminished light, Napoleon could see the look of smug superiority on the Russian’s face.

“It wasn’t my fault,” he asserted.

“I look forward to hearing about it,” Illya replied flatly. “You realise that I will have to explain why I used up a dart outside of an assignment.”

“Can’t you say you were defending yourself after being ambushed?”

“The CEA wants me to lie,” gasped Illya, with faux consternation. “I am astonished.”

“Illya!”

“Let us get this gentleman home, and then I will tell you my blackmail terms.


	16. P is for Pelican

“Have you got it?” asked Napoleon.

He and Illya were packing up ready to go to the airport. They were heading back to New York to report on their latest assignment in New Orleans.

“Got what?” Illya was momentarily puzzled before realising what Napoleon was talking about. “Oh, you mean the. . . Yes. It is in my carry-on bag.”

“Take good care of it. You know how the Old Man gets.”

Illya nodded solemnly. He would protect his bag as though his life depended on it.

..................................................................

Upon arrival at headquarters, the two men gave their suitcases to a member of the support staff to take to their office. Illya clung onto the carry-on bag as they made their way straight to Waverly’s office. He had cossetted it all the way, even gaining some worried looks from the air stewardesses. Luckily, Napoleon had noticed their apprehension and had quietly let them know that his friend was ‘afraid of flying’, and that the bag was like a security blanket to him. This had appeased the women, but had caused consternation for Illya. He had preferred their uneasiness to the over-friendliness he was consequently bombarded with.

Once in the large office, Illya opened the bag, and produced the object he had been guarding so diligently. With great care eh placed it in front of his boss. Mr Waverly picked it up and examined it closely.

The porcelain object was moulded into the shape of a pelican, and was mounted on a shallow, square plinth. It measured six inches high, and the base was three inches from edge to edge. On the front of the plinth was a small plaque which bore the legend ‘A Gift from New Orleans’. In the opinion of the three men present, it was an ugly, and quite tacky object.

“Did you have any difficulty, gentlemen?”

“No Sir,” Napoleon replied. “It was remarkably easy to procure.”

“Is it what you wanted?” Illya asked.

“Indeed it is, Mr Kuryakin,” Waverly told him. “Thank you both. My wife was devastated when our grandson broke the one I bought her twenty years ago. This is an exact replacement.”


	17. Q is for Queen

Napoleon Solo was taking a circuitous route to U.N.C.L.E.’s New Orleans field office, making sure to double back on himself several times, and even taking cuts through stores and restaurants. His intention was to avoid detection by Thrush and, therefore, safely deliver the microfilm he was carrying. He’d already picked up and lost one tail, but now had acquired himself another.

Ducking into an alley, Napoleon soon found himself with limited options. The alley was a dead end, and there was seemingly only one door open to him. With no other choices available, he entered into, what turned out to be, the kitchen of a restaurant in an upscale hotel. Suddenly, Napoleon once again had wiggle room.

Rather than go straight into the main public areas, Solo stuck to the service corridors, which were normally used by the staff. After a few minutes, he deemed it safe to go out into the open, and look for the main exit. Pushing open the next door he came to, Napoleon found himself in some sort of dressing area. The only occupant of the room looked at him questioningly.

She was a slender blonde woman, with exceptionally green eyes, and was dressed in an opulent white and gold gown. On the vanity in front of her was an ornately bejewelled crown.

“Do I have the honour of being in the presence of the Queen of Mardi Gras?” Napoleon asked.

“You do indeed,” the woman replied, showing no fear at there being a strange man in the room. “May I help you?”

With an extravagant sweep of the arm, Napoleon bent at the waist in a long, low bow.

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty,” he said. “There are people following me with whom I have no wish to become entangled. Would you mind if I use this room as a means of escape?”

“Are you an escaped criminal?”

“No,” he assured her. “I’m one of the good guys.”

“Pity,” she said sadly. “That would have been much more exciting.”

If only you knew, thought Napoleon, wryly.

“You may pass through, on one condition,” the woman continued.

Standing up, she took hold of Napoleon’s face, and drew him in for a kiss. Solo, without stopping, moved her hands aside and took her in an embrace. The kiss lasted for several long seconds before the woman finally pulled away.

“If anyone comes looking,” she said, huskily. “You were never here.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Napoleon replied, offering another bow.

Blowing her a final kiss, he left her alone once again, and resumed his journey to the field office.


	18. R is for Running of the Bulls

“What’s all that noise,” Napoleon Solo asked as he stuck his head out of the bathroom, his voice muffled by the toothbrush in his mouth.

“It is Mardi Gras,” Illya Kuryakin replied, not looking up from the permission report he was reading. “A traditionally noisy time in New Orleans.”

“Yeah, but it seems a bit early in the day.”

Laying down the file, Illya went to take a look out of the window. Their hotel room was on the second floor, and afforded them an excellent view up and down the street. Looking down to the road below, Illya could see hundreds of people dressed in white, with red scarves around their necks and waists.

“If I was in Pamplona, I would say that it is the Running of the Bulls.”

“I see what you mean.” 

Napoleon had finished his teeth and had joined Illya by the window. He looked to where the runners were coming from and surprised to see them being chased by hundreds of women on roller skates. They were wearing hats with cow horns on them, and were pretending to gore anyone who was unable to outpace them.

“Well, that’s new,” Napoleon commented. “And looks much more fun than the real thing.”

“Have you done it for real?”

“No, but I have witnessed it. You?”

“Twice.”

“Twice?

“Yes, twice,” Illya confirmed. “One was when I took a wrong turning while trying to evade a Thrush.”

“And the other?” Solo prompted, when it was obvious Illya wasn’t going to continue.

“Was another time,” the Russian mumbled. “If you’re done in the bathroom, I shall use it myself.”

Ten minutes later, Illya emerged from his ablutions, only to be confronted with the question again. His head dropped in that manner which told Napoleon he was embarrassed, and this was backed up by his reddening ears.

“My friends and I were trying to impress a girl,” he replied, eventually. “It was when I was at Cambridge, and four of us took a short trip to Spain. While there, we all took a liking to a local girl and, in an effort to win her affection, and outdo each other in the machismo stakes, we decided to run with the bulls.”

“Did you win the heart of the girl?”

“No,” Illya said, with annoyance etched into his voice. “Her husband had a prior claim to that.”


	19. S is for Stompers

“I understand the need to be clandestine with passing messages,” Napoleon muttered. “Especially in such a public arena. But this borders on the absurd.”

He and his partner were leaning on a railing, which lined one of the parade routes of New Orleans, awaiting the arrival of a messenger. Illya couldn’t help but agree with his partner’s point. Methods for passing information often needed to be varied and, as in this case, a little unusual. This time, however, Illya was certain someone was trying to make things difficult just to prove they could.

“I suppose,” he replied. “That it is good in one way. Who, other than a warped mind, would guess that intelligence was being relayed?”

“That’s true.”

Napoleon looked at his watch, to see how much longer they would have to wait, and realised it was only the matter of a minute or so.

“Whose bright idea was this?” he asked.

“Someone who has never had to decipher a code in the field,” Illya answered bitterly.

He often found himself frustrated by the ridiculousness of some of the things agents were given to do, by people with no experience of the realities of the job.

“Here they come,” said Napoleon, pointing at the group of men who had entered the street.

The Stompers were an all-male dance troupe, dressed in blue shorts, white t-shirts, and red jackets. Their look was finished off with a sweatband around the head. The troupe was freestyling, meaning that everyone of them was doing something different. For the U.N.C.L.E. agents, only one of them was of interest. 

The man they were interested in was at the front of the pack, and he was performing a routine which involved quite a lot of feet stomping. For anyone who was looking for it, they would have easily noticed he was stomping in Morse code; with the right foot representing the dots, and the left, the dashes. Napoleon and Illya concentrated intensely on reading the message. As soon as the troupe passed them, they went off to confer, and to ensure they had both read it the same.

“I got ‘Three at midnight at the double’.” Napoleon said, after they got into the car.

“As did I,” Illya confirmed. “What do you suppose that means?”

“Your guess would be as good as mine, Tovarisch,” Solo replied. “But, thankfully, that isn’t our problem. We are only hear to receive the message and send it to Waverly.”

“I will leave that to you,” said Illya, as he started the car. “While you do, I will locate somewhere for lunch.”


	20. T is for Tuba

Illya Kuryakin could almost be described as a polymath. He was well versed in science, and literature, but it was with music that his heart truly resided. His particular favourite, to both listen to, and play, was jazz; in its many and varied guises. It was because of this, that Illya was enjoying his assignment in New Orleans, with all its jazz festivals. It was also the reason he’d allowed his concentration to lapse.

He and Napoleon were observing the crowds of Mardi Gras, looking for any sign of a Thrush man called Dane Morgan. Their assignment was to note any contacts he made, so that U.N.C.L.E. could work out his network within the city. Another two hours with no sign of their mark, Napoleon had taken a chance to go and answer a call of nature.

While he was gone, Illya unconsciously became drawn into the music of the bands which were passing by. He was particularly taken with the tuba which had come to a stop right in front of him as the parade paused momentarily. It was providing the lowest notes of the music, the sound of which felt almost hypnotic.

Suddenly, he caught sight of Morgan across the street. The man was smiling at him in an annoyingly mocking manner, and it was only then that Illya realised why the tuba was so mesmerising. Looking closely, he could see the faint whisper of a gas coming from a small attachment at the bottom of the instrument. Illya’s last thought before losing consciousness was ‘how is this happening again?’*.

He woke in hospital bed he didn’t recognise. There was a brief moment of panic before he noticed Napoleon sitting in a chair across the room.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You tell me, Tovarisch,” Napoleon replied, laying down the magazine he had been reading. “I came back and found you out cold on the grass. No-one bothered to help you because there were many people, in varying degrees of intoxication, who were also lying on the ground.”

Illya thought back, and related his sorry tale to his partner.

“Mr Waverly will have my head for this,” he moaned.

“Fear not, my sleepy Soviet. Given that you were attacked, it’s clear that Morgan was aware of our surveillance of him,” Solo told him. “As such, Waverly knows that the mission was already a bust before he got to you.”

Illya nodded in acceptance, relieved that he wasn’t in for a chewing out.

“If I was only hit with a knockout gas, why am I in hospital?

“I wasn’t to know why you were unconscious,” Napoleon explained. “Don’t worry, though you won’t have to stay now you’re awake. Although, it’s almost dinner time, and I’m sure they’ll have some jello if you want it.”

Napoleon’s response to the glacial glare he was hit with was to widen his grin further.


	21. U is for Unicorn

“They could be anywhere in that crowd,” stated junior Thrush agent Gregory Carson, as he searched the masked revellers of Mardi Gras. “How are we supposed to spot Solo or Kuryakin?”

“I will know them,” replied his superior.

“Especially Solo I imagine,” sneered Carson. “given how well you know him, Angelique.”

“Pay attention to your job,” the blonde replied coldly, as she retouched her face powder.

Angelique couldn’t deny that Carson had a point, but she wasn’t about to let the snotty brat know that. She also wasn’t going to let him know that she had spotted their targets five minutes ago. Ironically, it was the wretched Russian who she noticed first. His gait, when he wasn’t actively taking notice of it, had a recognisable list to it. Of course, as soon as she had picked him out, Napoleon was easy to spot.

He really should take that ring off if he’s trying to hide, she thought to herself.

Both of the U.N.C.L.E. men were wearing casual clothing and, along with many others, had donned unicorn masks. Being a seasoned operative, Angelique was well aware of the reason for the choice of mask. It made it much easier to blend with all the others. Masks which were markedly different drew the eye of anyone watching.

“Are you going to be able to kill him?” Carson asked, breaking into Angelique’s thoughts.

“That is our assignment,” she almost snarled. “But we need to find him and his gloomy comrade first.”

The truth be told, Angelique was reluctant to carry out the orders she had been given. For all she was loyal to the hierarchy, and all it stood for, Napoleon was too much fun to waste. She had no doubt that she had been given this assignment deliberately, but she had no wish to carry it through. All she had to do was hope that Cason didn’t see them. Not that she had any problem with assassinating the Russian but, as he and Napoleon were together, it would be easier to let him live too. 

Without making it too obvious, she watched the two men disappear around a corner and mentally breathed a sigh of relief. Her superior wouldn’t be happy, but she knew how to persuade a man to forgive her. If necessary, she would find a way of laying the blame at Carson’s feet.

Down the street, and around the corner, Napoleon and Illya removed the masks.

“Did you see Angelique back there?” asked Illya.

“Yes,” Solo answered. “Next time I see her, I’ll make sure to thank her properly for letting us go?”


	22. V is for Voodoo

Sitting in the bar area of their hotel, Illya frowned when he saw the drink Napoleon was bringing to him. While he had no real objection to drinking cocktails, he found he was quite reluctant about one which was pink. Worse still, there was a raspberry, on a stick, balanced on the top of each glass.

“What is that?” he asked, as Solo handed a glass to him.

“It’s a Voodoo Doll,” Napoleon replied. “I thought that, as we’re in New Orleans, and we’re here during Mardi Gras, we should have something suited to the occasion.”

“I asked for vodka.”

“And you got it.”

Napoleon took a sip of his drink, and nodded appreciatively, before eating the raspberry with exaggerated panache. He gestured for Illya to try his. The Russian, however, was examining the cocktail as though it were something in a flask in the U.N.C.L.E. labs. Removing the raspberry from the top, he turned the glass every which way, peering at it as though trying to evaporate the liquid within by thought alone.

“It is a waste of vodka to adulterate it like this,” he declared. “I have nothing against cocktails, but I prefer my vodka as nature intended. What else is in here?”

“Well, apart from the vodka, there’s raspberry schnapps, orange juice, and cranberry juice,” Solo told him. “Look, just try it before denigrating it. You might like it.”

Illya glared in defiance, but then softened. It wasn’t as though his partner was actually trying to poison him. He started to take a sip but, as the flavour hit his tongue, he downed to whole thing. Staring at the empty glass, he began to smile, and then stopped himself. He didn’t want Napoleon to know he’d actually enjoyed it. Unfortunately, thanks to his chosen career, Solo was an inconveniently observant man.

“Can I get you another, Tovarisch?”

“Da!”


	23. W is for White Linen Night

Napoleon Solo emerged from the bathroom of the hotel suite he was sharing with Illya. The pair were in New Orleans a day early for an assignment so, naturally, Napoleon had decided to chance his luck at finding a willing companion for the evening. Illya, on the other hand, opted to go over the pre-mission reports and test the head of accounting’s patience by enjoying a little room service. He looked up as Napoleon crossed the room. 

Solo was dressed in a white linen suit and a white linen shirt. Even his shoes were patent white leather. The only colour was the blue of his silk tie and handkerchief, which were the exact shade of blue as the sapphire in his ring.

“It is only March,” Illya commented, arranging his face into a neutral expression.

“Am I supposed to glean some meaning from that statement?” Napoleon asked, not failing to notice his partner’s carefully constructed lack of reaction.

“White Linen night is at the beginning of August,” Illya explained. “It comes from a time when the only way to keep cool in the summer heat here was to wear white linen. Didn’t the salesman try to put you off such a purchase?”

“For your information,” said Napoleon, as he tucked his communicator into his inside breast pocket. “I picked this suit up in New York, and thought it might give me the look of a southern gentleman,”

Illya tried hard, but he couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. Napoleon was such a preening peacock at times. 

“I am sure you will be the talk of the town,” the Russian stated.

“Don’t wait up, dear,” Napoleon said, a little huffily, before heading out for a night of fun.

He returned a little under half an hour later. The front of his white suit and shirt had become brown.

“Don’t say anything,” he warned his partner.

“About what?” asked Illya, innocently. “About the fact it has been raining all day? About all the water pooling on the dirty roads? About the way that water is sprayed by the traffic? About...”

“Okay, okay!” Napoleon stopped him. “Maybe I was dressed little incorrectly for the time of year.”


	24. X is for Xavier

Napoleon Solo was well-known as a master strategist; almost as skilled as his boss, Alexander Waverly. However, on a trip to Germany, both men had to work quickly when Mrs Waverly decided she wanted to go to the opera. They were in the city of Aachen in West Germany and, although it was a business trip, Veronica Waverly had come along to ‘look after’ her husband. She claimed he was wont to neglect himself if given the opportunity. Waverly had spent his whole marriage lavishing his wife with gifts and surprises. Knowing she had a fondness for one of the Stadttheater Aachen’s mezzo-sopranos, he found himself unable to deny her request.

The singer in question was Débria Brown. Having graduated from Xavier University of Louisiana in 1958, as a Bachelor of Music, she was playing an important part in breaking down racial barriers in the operatic world. She had joined the Stadttheater Aachen in 1962, and often appeared as a guest artist in many of Germany’s other opera houses.

Mr Waverly had brought four agents with him; two Section 3s and his top team of Solo and Kuryakin. Ordinarily, this would be enough, even for a pubic excursion. Unfortunately, with only a few hours to prepare, there was no way the security of the opera house could be fully vetted in time. Waverly’s solution was to have four agents helicoptered in from Berlin. 

Two of the Section 3s surreptitiously patrolled outside, while two patrolled inside. The final two were each seated at one of the entrances to the auditorium. As for the Section 2 agents, Illya sat directly behind Mr and Mrs Waverly, while Napoleon sat to Mrs Waverly’s left.

The U.N.C.L.E. bean counters were going to have a fit at the cost of it but, upon seeing the expression of pure delight on Veronica’s face, he knew all the security arrangements had been more than worth it.


	25. Y is for Yat

Illya Kuryakin cursed in five different languages as he returned to his senses. The last he could remember, before losing consciousness, was tailing a Thrush courier through the streets of New Orleans to see where he went. He had followed him into an alleyway, and that was his last conscious thought. Judging by the familiar headache he had woken to, the courier must have had a back-up. Illya was immensely grateful that he had just been knocked out, and not killed. He was less grateful for the Mardi Gras parade which seemed to be stomping through his head.

Somewhere nearby he could hear voices which caused him to reassess his situation. Although he had definitely been in New Orleans when he lost consciousness, it sounded like he was in New York. The voices were speaking in a language he didn’t understand, but their accents sounded like those he had heard many times in Brooklyn. What he couldn’t work out was why someone would drag him to New York only to dump him in an alley.

“Mr Kuryakin!”

The voice was that of Charles Beauchamp, a Section 3 agent from the New Orleans U.N.C.L.E. office. This just threw up more questions for Illya.

“Why are you in New York?” he asked.

“This is New Orleans, Sir,” Beauchamp stated, puzzled by the question. “I was sent to look for you when you missed two scheduled call-ins. How badly are you hurt?”

“I am uninjured,” Illya told him. “However, I am certain I could hear Brooklyn accents.”

Realisation dawned for Beauchamp.

“What you heard was Yat,” he explained. “It’s one of the local dialects. It’s a result of the blending of various European dialects from immigrants, and local dialects. By chance, it sounds kind of Brooklyn-esque.”

“Interesting,” Illya muttered, as he got to his feet. “This is something I shall have to research. Firstly, however, I have got to inform Mr Waverly that I have failed my assignment.


	26. Z is for Zatarain's

A lengthy assignment in New Orleans was drawing to a close but, instead of being happy at returning home, Illya found himself feeling somewhat melancholy. It was their last evening in the city and, rather than seeking out some female company, Napoleon suggested that his partner join him for dinner. 

“That is how rumours get started,” Illya quipped.

It wasn’t the first time he’d made that joke, but there was a strange tone to it this time. Solo knew there was something bothering him, which was why he had suggested dinner in the first place.

“Are you up for it? I’m paying.”

Illya perked up a little.

“In that case, I accept,” he said. “That will be one less you me.”

An hour later the agents were tucking into some of the finest Cajun cuisine which New Orleans had to offer, and Illya seemed much more content.

“You’re going to miss this, aren’t you?” Napoleon asked. “That’s why you’ve been grumpy all day.”

“I must admit that the food here is quite delicious,” Illya replied, with a mouthful of crawfish. “Although, I am sure there will be somewhere in New York where I can find something similar.”

.......................................................................................

The following morning, while Illya finished packing, Napoleon said he had to do something before they left. He asked his partner to finish up his packing too and promptly disappeared. The Russian, who had already been on the precipice of a bad mood, completely tipped over the edge. He did as he was asked, and filled Napoleon’s suitcase. However, instead of carefully placing the hand-finished shirts within, he threw them in any old how. He finished the packing for both of them, just as Solo returned.

“Got you a gift,” Napoleon announced, handing a large box over.

Illya opened it and found it filled with Zatarain’s seasonings and spices. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

“When you went to the bathroom in the restaurant last night, I asked how they prepared the crawfish,” Napoleon explained. “They told me that they swore by Zatarain’s. I figured, with that lot, you could prepare Cajun food for yourself, with the flavourings you’ve fallen in love with.”

“I do not know what to say, my friend,” Illya replied, with genuine gratitude.

“There’s no need to say anything,” Solo told him. “Just make sure to invite me over for a meal at least once. You ready to go?”

A deep sense of guilt settled in Illya’s chest as Napoleon picked up his suitcase but, looking at the gift he’d just received, he decided to get safely home before the inevitable storm.


End file.
